Sanctuary: Devotion
by lupinskitten
Summary: An incident transpires on a creature hunt that forces Helen to confront the past, exploring what might have happened to turn her relationship with John violent. Fairly shipper-heavy.
1. Chapter 1

**DEVOTION**

Rain was dripping off the eve above them and running down the back of her neck beneath the collar of her somber black coat, but Helen Magnus did not seem overly concerned by it. Her eye remained fixed on the gloom that formed the rounded opening of the sewer tunnel leading out of the Old City. Her concentration was evident, her hand tight around the butt of the automatic weapon she held in slender fingertips. Movement alerted her to the presence of the others, her daughter's golden hair glinting in the weak light cast from a nearby building as she crept across the alley. "It's not coming out," Ashley said with a hint of resignation that suggested they go in after it.

"It will," her mother promised. "We have it cornered. It cannot escape."

"Mom, we have been here for five hours. It's not coming out. Let's go in and finish the job."

"And I say we consider what we are dealing with, before we go storming in there and get ourselves killed." Helen had a commanding sort of authority that no one ever dared contradict, although Ashley had tried numerous times in her childhood. She had been an impetuous, argumentative, occasionally bad-tempered child with all of her mother's instincts and her father's stubborn nature. The best of both, or the worst, considering who you asked. Ashley pulled one of her customary expressions of annoyance and looked at the huddled-up figure behind Helen, the collar of his coat turned up as he tried to keep himself warm in the downpour.

"Will?" she demanded, and he looked up at them through fogged-over glasses. He had joined their expedition a few months earlier and was already accustomed to their quibbling, but as usual, had no desire to become involved. Will was thinking of his warm office back at the Sanctuary, of a chair by the fireside and a stack of well-worn philosophy and psychology books, as he attempted to figure out how to communicate with their more unusual captives. He did not particularly want to sit any longer on this damp, dank street corner, nor did he want to go storming into the gloom of the sewage tunnel where they had managed to corner a creature of some sort.

Both women looked at him expectantly. Will sighed. "We don't even know what it is," he hedged.

"We know it took out two policemen, a fire engine, and a second story window before it vanished. That's good enough for me." Ashley checked the rounds in her assault weapon and, without her mother's permission, ran for the entrance. Helen called after her and then followed with Will bringing up the rear, his footsteps reluctant. He had seen all manner of strange, abnormal, psychotic, and just plain weird creatures since he had become a member of their elite group, but he still had no burning desire to land in the proverbial or literal line of fire. Ghouls, vampires, werewolves, mermaids… all were still new to him, invoking a curiosity he could not subside, along with an equal amount of trepidation.

Moving carefully in the shadows, Ashley listened for any sound that might seem abnormal. The stench of the place was horrendous, fouler than anything she had ever encountered. There was more than just muck in there, and she shone her flashlight carefully in all directions. Water was seeping out of the tunnel and left the ground spongy, making sucking sounds at her boots with every step. Behind her, Will made disgusted noises as he contemplated his new surroundings. Helen wavered off the main path and cast the light behind some boxes, silent as she contemplated the grotesque remains of something hideous. Only skin, sinew, and bones remained, indicating that whatever had taken it out was much bigger than the creature it had decimated. This was the source of the stench, and she looked up as her daughter progressed further into the tunnel.

"Ashley," she called, and the blonde head turned toward her, sloshing through the standing water to see what remained of the creature that only a few hours earlier they had chased into the pipe. Will came with her and said, "Oh, geez," before turning away with one hand over his mouth. When he turned back around, water dripping from his glasses, Ashley had drawn near enough to see the dismembered creature at its fullest, her gaze burning with uncertainty. Helen rose to her feet, keeping her light focused on the creature's vivid green eyes, having lost their gleam now that they were stilled forever. In life it would have been terrifying, but in death it was even more horrendous.

"That's _so_ not good." Will's damp hair was hanging into his face, and it was obvious from his stance that he was cold. He kept shifting from one foot to the other. It was apparent from his expression that he was thinking what the rest of them were: something had done their job for them, but where was it? Flashlights swiveled in all directions, chasing away numerous shadows, but nothing moved, nothing breathed, nothing made a sound apart from the rain pattering on the pavement outside and the sound of their footsteps. Helen sensed something evil there, but could not put a name to it. Only that it lurked deep in the darkness without stirring, and that it was far too dangerous to encounter before the dawn.

"We're going home," she said, and for once, no one argued with her. Ashley accompanied Will back the length of the tunnel and once more into the rain, Helen following on their heels. Once, she thought she heard something and turned to look back, shining her flashlight as deep into the gloom as it would go. The light flickered in her hand and almost went out, but she slapped it with the palm of her hand and it resumed its strength. Nothing. Feeling suddenly cold, she quickened her step and returned to the others, joining them in the van. No one spoke as Bigfoot drove them back to the Sanctuary, each one wondering what might have killed such a violent creature in such a short amount of time. Somehow, it had been slain without alerting their suspicion, for they had been at watch all night.

Ashley was sitting with one foot up, her fingers loosely wrapped around her weapon. Will was hugging his arms to his chest, his features a mask of concentration. Helen exchanged a meaningful glance with the driver as they passed through the electronic gate. Throwing off rain-soaked coats in the entrance hall, all of them went off to their rooms, Ashley no doubt to come up with a plan of action once dawn broke, and Will to pace the floor with nervous tension. Helen watched them go in silence and then looked at her only remaining companion. Bigfoot held out his hand for her coat and she gave it to him, the fondness in his eyes evident. He was a hideous looking creature, yet liked her tremendously, and Ashley as well. He was not a being of deep contemplation, but his intelligence was evident, and his loyalty profound. More than once, he had risked his life for hers, in repayment for the bullets she had taken out of him.

"Would you care for some tea, Dr. Magnus?" he asked her in that warm, gravely tone she was so accustomed to, and listening to the rain on the roof and the quiet sounds of the creatures in the Sanctuary below, Helen nodded. He said he would bring it up to her office, and went into the kitchens to make a pot, well steeped, just as she liked it. Her office was spacious and crowded, hundreds of reference volumes overflowing the shelves and scattered across her desk. In the weak lamplight, Helen opened several of her books and started cross referencing, but it did not take long for her to realize how tired she was.

Taking a sip of her now-cold tea and making a face, she rubbed her temples to ease the tension and glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning. The Sanctuary was quiet at this hour. Helen almost never slept, for she had no need to. The same unique strength in her blood that allowed her to remain unchanged as she grew older also allowed her to function on very little rest, but for the first time in a hundred years, she felt _tired_. The concept was foreign to her, distant, even troubling as she rose to her feet and moved down the gloomy corridor to her room, where a fire blazed warmly in the hearth and the four poster bed welcomed her presence eagerly. The pillows formed around her as she lay down, staring drowsily into the flickering flames. They crackled and popped, blurring as her eyes lost focus and sleep settled in around her.

For an instant there was movement against the shadows, a flame that looked strangely like a face she knew well, and then all faded into nothing as she heard, in no more than a whisper, her name.

"_Helen_…"


	2. Chapter 2

It was a perfectly magnificent morning on campus, a golden autumn day with orange and crimson leaves blowing through the arches of the prestigious medical school that had at long last allowed her admittance. There was a hint of a nip in the air that hastened her step as she carried her books heaped up before her, precariously balancing them while almost sprinting in her long skirt to be the first one in the classroom. There were other students about and none of them paid her much mind, even a few females brave enough to face the male-dominated institution that had only recently, reluctantly, agreed that medical education should be granted to women as well as men. Helen had been one of the most adamant figures of insistence, her voice shouting to be heard among other aspiring females, more feminist than moderate, with a hint of her father's dogged persistence and her mother's unforgiving nature.

Rounding the corner beneath one of the arches, she collided with someone and her books exploded into the air around her, falling in a feather of fluttering pages to the cold stone beneath her feet. "Oh, blast," said a distinctly masculine voice, as he bent to help her gather them up again, "I am sorry!" Gloved fingers assisted in her retrieval and then she looked up into a pair of piercing eyes. They were not surprised to find her there, nor disapproving like so many others, but were accompanied by a warm smile as he deposited the anatomy book on the top of the pile and rose to his feet. His name was John Druitt, and over time she would come to know him quite well, but in those first moments all she could think of was the possibility of being late, and thus thanked him for his assistance and ran past him into the corridors of an establishment that would give her no end of heartache in the years that followed.

While women were allowed to attend, they were not encouraged to, and Helen encountered no end of persecution and ridicule even from the more considerate professors. Most of it she knew was aimed deliberately at her not as a woman, but as the daughter of Dr. Magnus, a well-known, unorthodox figure in London medicine. Her father's preoccupations and unusual fascinations were obscure and unknown to her, and it was apparent only through general mistreatment by his peers that he was not well liked or respected. To spare his feelings, she told him none of it, not how she was patronized by the professors, snickered at by her fellow students, and occasionally insulted to her face. The slender young woman with large, pale eyes and riot of golden hair fought with a kind of determination that astounded everyone who knew her, and earned a begrudging sense of respect with time and hard work.

It was not the last time she encountered John Druitt either, for he often found reasons to remain behind with her or walk with her between classes, intrigued by her vast medical knowledge and the swiftness of her mind. There was something unusual and alluring about him that she found fascinating, for he was well-versed and delightful company, but also somewhat secretive and evasive. There was less teasing when she was around him, for the others looked at him, slightly intimidated, and halted their sarcasm on their tongues, knowing he would turn on them with violence if provoked. John brought her a certain peace of mind at the university and on more than one occasion, his intentional presence prevented one professor or another from excluding her, something Helen mildly resented. "I want to be known on my own merits, not because you intervened for me," she once told him crossly, as they walked the narrow path between the library and the inner hall.

"My dear Helen," he contradicted, "I have done nothing of the sort," and smiled at her. She could never remain irritated at him for long and this normally prompted a similar curve of the lips, but this time evolved into a weary expression. They walked a few more paces, and then she asked if he would come to dinner that evening, for she desired him to meet her father. There was a flicker of uncertainty before he agreed, for the reputation of Doctor Magnus was well known. John was on his best behavior and in his most polished spats when he arrived on their doorstep that evening, surprised to find her home very comfortable and welcoming despite the absence of her long-dead mother. Helen had stepped into her shoes without trepidation and the household was perfectly run, from well-mannered servants to her instinctive good taste in wine.

He got on magnificently with her father, and they spent the evening discussing all manner of medical histories and related discoveries, Helen finding them excellent companions, compatible in every respect, for her father was agreeable and John was yielding even when she knew his opinions were varied. When it came time for her to show him out, Helen assisted him with his cloak and said, "Thank you for not quarreling with him over lobotomies. He can be rather…"

"Impassioned." John looked down at her with his customary smile and she blushed slightly beneath the intensity of his gaze. "Yes, your family does seem to tend toward that. Now at least I know who is to blame for your frequent arguments with your professors." He laughed at the feigned disapproval on her face, and took his walking stick from her hand, closing his fingers around hers. Helen was started by this movement, the caress of his fingertips as they passed over her wrist, an almost possessive connection that did not relent as he placed his hat on his head and turned to bid her father farewell where he stood in the doorway of the parlor. "Thank you, sir, for your hospitality, and as for you, Miss Magnus, I will see tomorrow."

There was a tremor in her heart as she closed the door after him, an attempt to pretend nothing had happened as she turned to her father, relieved that he had nothing but pleasant things to say about their dinner companion. But after that single incident, everything changed. There was suddenly more meaning to each glance and the nearness John maintained toward her. Helen was not foolish, but had been preoccupied and now saw his feelings toward her were greater than she had anticipated. It did not surprise her when he asked to take her to dinner, then to the theater, and then to the opera, when he offered to walk with her in-between classes even though he did not share them all, and would have to dash back to his own classrooms in order not to be late. Some might have thought it morbid when he gave her a human skull encased in a glass box, but Helen marveled over it.

"Not the customary thing one gives a young woman," he admitted as she examined it in the light, "but it suited your interests and I could not help it when I saw it in the seedy shop window." He admired the way the morning light caressed the contours of her face, the luxurious depths of her hair, how her eyes sparkled as she turned to reassure him that she was pleased to have it. Helen was not like the other young women he knew. She was fearless in her medical ambitions, never afraid to dissect a knee cap or set a broken arm. Where some of her female companions had fainted during their first autopsy demonstration, she had leaned forward in her seat for a better look.

"Isn't it magnificent how different we all are?" Helen asked him with excitement, holding up the skull for him to see. "You can tell by this line here that it was a female. The male jaw would be much larger. It is an aborigine skull, isn't it? From Africa perhaps, or South America?" Her features colored when she saw that he continued to look at her, having lost all interest in the object held in her fingertips, and his hand lowered the glass box and its morbid occupants to her lap as he leaned toward her. Her heart quickened as his lips barely caressed her own, his hand lifting to touch the side of her face. Their quiet corner of the library was secretive and unnoticed, this moment of unguarded affection not witnessed by anyone, for she quickly pulled back, gathered up her books, and bolted. Her footsteps rang down the steps of the establishment, his following as he called out after her, "Helen! Please, stop!"

Rather than have him draw any further attention to them, her pace slowed and she allowed him to catch up with her in the arches. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" he began, but she shook her head and silenced him.

"It's not that… it's just… I have my examinations coming up. I cannot be distracted, not now! It's not the same for you! They will not judge you harshly as a man, but I must make no mistakes! There must be no reason for them to fail me! I know some of them want to. I see it whenever they look at me in the classroom, but I won't allow it. This means a tremendous amount to me, John, as do you, but please, let us remain friends and nothing more, for a time."

She could see he was disappointed, even rejected, but her pleading expression allowed him to be forgiving, and he smiled as he closed his hand over hers. "Only if it is just for a time," he promised, and was as good as his word, but even then she found it difficult to concentrate whenever he was around. However much distracted, she passed all her exams, much to the disappointment of various professors, and the exhilaration of her father, and applied for a medical license. Three times. But in each instance, they refused to give it to her. Frustration formed into tears, and then wrath, and finally all-consuming disappointment. John had been gone for several weeks on a "personal matter," and her father was the only one she could confide in.

For many years, she had known he kept a secret. There was a locked door at the foot of a long flight of stairs in the house that he often passed through, but would never allow her to enter. She had asked him once or twice growing up, but he had patted her on the shoulder and said, "Perhaps someday."

Now, she wanted to see, wanted to learn what all the whispers were about, why people said her father was mad, why his colleagues so often left the house with expressions of frustration and disgust. Her father looked at her for a time and then agreed, handing her an oil lamp and taking her down that eerie flight to the locked door. The keys jangled in his large hands as he unlocked it, and pushed it open into the yawning darkness, before he stepped out of her path. Helen went forward boldly, her mouth opening in astonishment at what was found within, at the numerous rooms where creatures she never could have envisioned existed. Some of them were compassionate and kind, others were ferocious and feral. "This is the Sanctuary," her father told her, "and we are its guardians. Many refuse to admit such things exist, that there are creatures out there beyond our understanding or perceptions. But you know the truth, Helen. We have not even begun to explore the realms of possibility in this world."

Knowing of its existence changed her, in profound ways that she could not explain, bringing a sense of purpose to her life that no one else understood. Helen had found her place in administering medicine to creatures that needed it, in exploring the unknown, in science that unfolded and imploded around her in a dazzling sphere of possibility. It was a different woman that John met coming off the train at the London station, for there was color to her cheeks and boldness to her step, despite continued rejections from the medical establishment. Helen saw at once that she was not the only one who had altered in their time apart, for John was much paler than he had been on his departure, with dark circles beneath his eyes. There was trepidation when he looked at her, his hand wavering as it came into hers, her concern evident. "John, you are ill," she said, and he could not deny it.

Helen did everything she could to improve him, but he would not allow it. He was drifting away from her, despite all of her efforts. One afternoon he was unwell and she had come to see him, their visit interrupted when he nearly overturned the little tea table between them as he fell from his chair in agony. Helen leapt from her chair and attempted to assist him, but with a sudden force she could not explain, he arose and thrust her from the room, slamming the parlor door behind her. Furious, Helen threw herself against it and the latch gave way, spilling her into the candlelight as, before her very eyes, John vanished into nothingness. He was there one instant and then gone the next, accompanied by a flash of light. Astounded, she remained fixed in place, gasping with astonishment when he reappeared behind her in the corridor, the effort causing him to crumble to his knees.


	3. Chapter 3

That she had witnessed his abnormality brought him no end of misery, but Helen would have none of it, and demanded to know what had happened. Curled up before the fire nursing his aching muscles, John had told her it had begun months earlier, at intermittent times. It felt as if every sinew in his body were aflame and then, in a violent explosion, he would be pulled from one place into another, without will or inclination, and always in tremendous pain. There was some sense that he was guiding it, for he often appeared where he most wanted to be. "Once, it was outside your house, in the middle of the night," he confessed ruefully. "I managed to drag myself into the nearest hansom cab and return home." These fits had become more and more violent with passing weeks, forcing him to take a sabbatical in the country. "Now you will find me a monster, an oddity that not even science can explain. I am sorry you have come to know of it."

"You must not be, for it changes none of my feelings toward you." Helen rested her hand on his arm in reassurance and he knew looking into her eyes that she told the truth. She could not tell him for some weeks about the Sanctuary and her increased knowledge of unusual things, but turned her mind to methodical study in order to find something to cure him, or at least to numb the pain. And at long last, she found it, an obscure reference in one of her father's books that led her to experimentation. For months she toiled in an attempt to find a solution, spending long nights with her eye pressed to a microscope, tireless in her determination to save the man she loved, slowly slipping into oblivion. She often wondered if he would not vanish one day and never reappear.

It was accidental, her means of discovering the solution. The blood she had drawn from John was before her in the little glass dish, and in her exhaustion, for it was well past midnight, she knocked over the nearest beaker. It fell from the table and smashed on the floor, spreading liquid into the carpet and turning it a deep shade of green. "Bother," she muttered, and bent to retrieve the broken pieces of glass. Arranging them on the table, it was only then that she noticed she had cut herself, and the bead of blood that formed on the edge of her fingertip fell too swiftly for her to prevent it. The sickly, grayish mass from John turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. "No," she whispered, "no, it cannot be."

But it was.

There were some minor concerns involved in such a thing, in the moral nature of it, in the scientific aspect of sharing blood, even in the risk it proposed to both of them. She did not tell her father, even though she knew he had the answers. "Helen," he had told her when she had first seen the Sanctuary, "you are a Magnus, a guardian of such places. You are not like your peers. Your life will be nothing like theirs, for you are timeless, a rarity, my greatest accomplishment and also my deepest sorrow." He had made her all but immortal through his experimentation, but did not share her gift. Helen would live on, and he would die when he grew old, as all men must. He would have violently objected to her sharing of blood, for it might generate repercussions. That is why she did not tell him, why she did not even tell John. It was done in an instant, a simple injection and the color returned to his face, amusement to his eyes, and pleasure to his countenance.

One injection was not enough. It took six more over a matter of months, in which his affection for her was limitless, and she experienced contentment again. When he was well, he took her to a play, one of his favorites, magnificently butchered by a group of mediocre actors who occasionally bungled their lines. And while they were laughing about it in the coach afterward, he asked her to marry him. Helen experienced a rush of emotions, some good and some bad, but could say nothing as he slipped the ring over her finger and promised to spend the rest of his life with her. Their turn about the park was spent in one another's arms, his kisses passionate and his arms warm around her, before they parted on the steps of her home. Their engagement was to last awhile and thus she devoted half of her time to work, and the other half to wedding arrangements.

John had not vanished since the injections and she was certain he was cured. There was no doubt on the night of their engagement party that all was well, for there was much laughter and champagne. John was slightly different that night, a little less forthcoming with their guests than she had anticipated, but always affectionate. She had thought not to see him until the morning and thus was surprised after his departure in the coach to return to her room, place her oil lamp on the side table, and turn to find him in the shadows behind her. "John, you startled me," she said, and he came forward, his collar undone and a mesmerizing look in his eyes. Helen knew she should object, that she should have asked him to leave, but she could not. Not even when he drew her into his arms and kissed her, with such depth and passion that it caused her to abandon common sense.

His narrow fingers worked through the laces at the back of her gown and managed to find bare skin, drawing a gasp from her that then fell into a shudder of forbidden excitement. Garments were shed in layers of vibrant silk, the lamp still burning on the desk where her books were scattered, lying open to pages of interest. His mouth left hers and caressed her throat as he pressed her into the pillows, his motions intensifying as she responded to him, not knowing quite what to do but trusting that he would guide her. Every caress and movement was unfamiliar to her, but Helen was overwhelmed by it, by the rush of emotion she experienced in his arms, by the sense of security it brought her when he uttered her name. It was forbidden and scandalous and even dangerous, but she did not consider that, not even as the oil lamp burned out and plunged the room into moonlit shadows.

It was strange to have him there throughout the night, his presence constant, his arm about her, only rising as the early remnants of dawn began to appear through the far window. Helen sat up and watched him dress, hugging the blankets around her. Catching her eye, John smiled and said, "Soon, I won't have to leave." There was no awkwardness in his mannerisms, in the kiss that he pressed to her lips before he vanished, indicating that he could now control his destination, and would no doubt appear once more at home, in his own set of rooms above Whitechapel. Helen was not so confident, for with the dawn had come awareness of what she had done, what she had allowed to happen, what she had willingly participated in, and found some pleasure in. She could not meet her father's eye at breakfast, ashamed of what had been committed under his very roof, and there was a distance between them when she met John that afternoon in the park.

He was confounded by it for a time until she said, rather bluntly, "It cannot happen again."

They stood near a bower of flowers, for it was mid-summer, and their scent was profound, washing over them and the walking passersby in an airy perfume greater than any other she had before encountered. John had been pleasant until now but his expression changed as he looked at her, confused until he realized what she meant. Guiding her away from their companions, and beneath the shade of the nearest tree, he said, "Helen, surely you are not affected by common social restrictions. I thought you above such things."

"Above concern for my reputation," she asked incredulously, "to say nothing of moral standards? This is the world we live in, John. There are acceptable behaviors and responsibilities, and what we did was ill-advised and dangerous. It has the potential to ruin me. You know how hard I have worked, how much I have sacrificed to achieve what meager success I obtained. If any of this were to become known, all of it would be taken away from me."

Leaves stirred above them and John stepped closer, his voice soft as he whispered, "They are the rash judgments of a prudish society well beneath you. There are no two individuals quite like us in the entire world. We should not have to abide by their rules." He indicated the people around them with a wave of his hand, and Helen followed the sweep of his eye, watching the laughing, running children and their parents walking arm in arm, the young lovers shyly touching hands on a park bench, an older woman and her elderly husband, whom she was pushing in a wheel chair. Uncertainty flashed in her eyes, for her heart was divided. Her loyalty to her father and his trust in her and the Victorian ideals that governed he did battle against her desire for John, for the freedom she had experienced in his arms, for the rush in knowing it was inappropriate and scandalous. Her heart fluttered as she stood beside him, desiring to yield to his unorthodox argument, but she shook her head.

"You cannot think that way, John, you cannot look at them as beneath you. Once you do that, there is no respect in you toward them. In order to protect and understand those under my protection, I must first respect them, admire them, and be curious as to their reasons and perceptions. You and I are not so different from these people. We must take care not to judge ourselves as above them, or we will have no regard for their welfare."

John took her by the arm and walked her down the path, their footsteps even as he tipped his hat to the various individuals they encountered. "Why should we be concerned with them?" he asked. Helen was about to speak when it happened, a rush of wind and heat and light that made her disoriented, for when the brilliant flash cleared, they no longer stood in the park, but in a gloomy alley beneath the flickering twilight. Hours of daylight had passed, for he had taken them forward in time, to a place unfamiliar to her. John released her arm and she steadied herself by reaching out for the near wall, turning to him in astonishment, but he did not pause to answer her unasked question, instead moving forward in the shadows. "Come, Helen, and tell me if they are worthy of your respect, if they are equal to you."

She saw fragments of figures, of places, of actions that astounded and horrified her, of ruthlessness and lust, depravity and greed. The worst of humanity was revealed but even so, it was his uncaring approach to them that she found the most disconcerting. It had not become apparent until now that he thought so lowly of the things that came to her for protection. His powers had changed him, made him cold and harsh toward those he did not feel were as superior as he was. This bothered her the most: that he did not care about their unique abilities or their scientific existence, but that he thought himself above them and believed she ought to share his feelings, when they were no different from one another. All existed on a common plain, forced to share the same earth, the same air, the same endless cycle of life and death as every other being. The monsters were no different in that regard than the humans, alike in so many ways yet profoundly different, but all of them miraculous and marvelous. "_We save humans from the creatures, and creatures from the humans_," her father had told her,_ "for both threaten the other, but we must never regard one as less than the other_."

When she had seen enough, she asked him to take her home and in an instant she was in the parlor at the fireside, darkness surrounding them and only the sound of the ticking clock interrupting the perfect silence. Helen gazed down into the flames, feeling sick to her stomach. John lurked in the background, knowing by her expression that she was displeased. "I had no idea you were so arrogant," she said after a time, resting her hand on the mantle and lifting her eyes to the mirror to look across her shoulder at him. There was a flicker of anger that crossed his face, accompanied by a swift movement as he came toward her, but Helen turned so that he was forced to look into her eyes, which were filled with anger. "You were ashamed of what you were when you came to me, when you would not let me help you, and now that I have, you show contempt for everything, for the science that brought you to this moment, and for me as your physician and the woman who loves you, because you _dare_ to insinuate that you are above all others simply because you are abnormally gifted."

Anyone else who dared to speak to him in such a manner would have earned the back of his hand, but John resisted the urge; the muscles in his cheek flinched as he gritted his teeth. "Is that what you think of me," he asked in his wonderful, deep voice, once so soft and reassuring but now harsh, "that I am 'abnormal' like one of your creatures?"

"Of course not, but how could you think of them in that way? How could you not marvel at their existence, in the Force that created all of us? Worse, how could you look down on human beings who are innocent of the knowledge we take for granted? How can you have so little regard for them that you would not care what happened to them?" Her hair was glowing in the firelight, a riot of gold about her slender shoulders, matching the fierceness in her eyes, which was no different from the anger rising in his. The Sanctuary was for the preservation and protection of whomever needed it, for the creatures too dangerous to be left among society, and for those who needed sanctuary from a world that could not understand them.

"Why should we be concerned with such things? Let your father manage the Sanctuary, and come with me. I can travel anywhere you choose in an instant. I can bend the reality of time." He placed his hands on her shoulders and slid them down to her arms, his tenderness apparent. "Oh, Helen, think of what we might be together. Think of all we might accomplish." He rested his forehead against hers, and she listened to the beating of her heart in her chest, fighting between repulsion and desire. She loved him more than anything she had ever encountered, with a greater passion than was prudent, but equal in her heart was adoration for the Sanctuary, for a place beyond imagination, for the promise of adventure and danger, for experimentation and understanding.

It took great strength to pull away from him, and while she did not speak, the rejection in her movement was obvious. John looked at her for a time and the hurt in his features was profound, but then she watched it evolve into something horrible, into unimaginable hatred. "Very well," he said, "you have made your choice," and vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

The room felt cold in his absence, and for the first time she realized how shaken she was as she sank into the nearest chair. There were light footsteps in the corridor and she masked her expression as her father entered, making it as pleasant as she could. He was surprised to see her there. "Helen, I did not know you had returned! Did you have a nice walk with John?"

"It was very illuminating," she said meaningfully, and her smile faded when his back was turned.

"_Helen_…"

Her head turned, wondering who had spoken, for there was no one in the room apart from her father and herself, and he was going on about his latest medical discovery. Believing she might have been mistaken, Helen accepted the glass of port he offered her and attempted to listen to his conversation. But it came again, a voice that she now was able to distinguish from the background. "_Helen_…" It was deep and sensual, attractive and caused vibrations to cascade through her form, but her father was oblivious to it. John's voice, calling her name, but without anger or maliciousness, only urgency.

"_Helen_…"

Everything around her flickered, but her father continued to speak as if nothing unusual had happened. The oil lamps flared and crackled the voice more persistent now. "HELEN!" it demanded, and her glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the hearth. Nothing happened. Her father continued to talk, as if she had not arisen to her feet, and it was then she realized that she had been playing out a part, that nothing she said or did would alter the outcome. The world around her flickered again and suddenly she was not standing in the parlor, but in her room. Her engagement ring shone on her hand, and she knew he was there before she saw him out of the corner of his eye, John standing in the shadows behind her.

"_Helen_…" he breathed, and came toward her, no longer garmented in the somber Victorian waistcoat, for it truly was John now, and not just an illusion or a repeat of her darkest memories. The world around them was flickering, flashing, transporting her through her memories, taking her from once place to the next, from the corridors of Oxford to the streets of Whitechapel, to the war-torn battlefields of Europe and the depths of the sea. But it could not shake John, no matter how much it tried, and in a single step he crossed the expanse of air between them and took her into his arms. Reality was returning to her, memories flooding into her mind as it was opened, the illusion shattered and hundreds of years' worth of experiences crowding into her head.

_Ashley_. That was the name that came to her lips, one she could not speak, for that was her most recent memory, of watching her daughter go up the staircase to her room. Everything beyond that was a blur, trapped in this endless rotation of events that had brought her nothing but pain. They were in the parlor once more, a darkened room with only the light of the fire cast over them. She knew by her garments, by the placement of the clock on the far wall, by the instruments on the table, that it was the night she had suspended her pregnancy, had preserved the embryo that would one day become her daughter, intending to wait until John was dead to decide if she would bring their child into the world. John had done terrible things in those long weeks… he had avoided her at first, and then haunted her footsteps, becoming unpardonably cruel, hating her with such a violent passion that there were times that she dreaded his abilities, wondered if she would awaken in the night to find him standing over her.

The murders in Whitechapel had stumped the police and terrified the locals, but she had known all along who was to blame, for he was doing it to punish and humiliate her. The insult was obvious, profound, heartless, but she still loved him enough that she hesitated, could not put a bullet between his eyes, even at the cost of a woman's life. John had no common sense left in him. Driven by a ruthless sense of revenge that she could not comprehend, and forced into madness due to an over-use of his unique abilities, she had never known more pain than in this moment, when she had considered destroying the child, fearing what it might become. "Yes," John said in her ear, as she reeled from the memories, "that is why you were brought to this moment. You have to face it, Helen! You have to face it, or you will never come out of it!"

John pulled her across the room to the table where her instruments were lain out and Helen shuddered when she saw them, remembering the advanced science she had used, things she should not have been capable of, but that had come without hesitation. "The others could not face it," he whispered. "None of them could face the past and so they all died. Their insides turned to poison that licked through their veins and caused them to disintegrate internally. You remember that creature you found in the tunnels? Do you remember the dreadful stench? Do you remember the Shadows?"

The Shadows. Helen's eyes darted across the room around them, finding them in every corner, and realized they had been present throughout her ordeal. Shadows beneath the arches, under tree branches, trailing after them at the opera, even in her room as John had made love to her. Threatening, ominous, seemly innocent shadows. Creeping down corridors, passing across floors, falling on the wall behind her, and now obvious to her perceptions, waiting to consume her, to embrace her from within, and cause all to fall into eternal darkness. Helen was rarely frightened of anything, but in that instant drew in her breath, realizing she had allowed them to have her, to manipulate her, to overcome her mind and her senses, to cloud her reasoning and force her into the past. It was then that she truly saw John as he stood before her, no more than a fragment of his past form, for it was worn about the edges. She had given him a compound on their last encounter that she thought would destroy him, but there was enough of her blood in him that he survived, caught between worlds. He was an illusion, but also in her mind, capable of accessing her hallucinations and controlling them.

"Why?" she asked him with obvious pain, and it caused him to pause, drawing slightly back from her as he considered her slender form, still as beautiful as it had been in much earlier times, when they had been friends and lovers rather than enemies. John reached out to touch the side of her face, as he had so often done during their courtship, and she did not pull away from him. "Do you not hate me still?"

"There was never true hatred, Helen; disappointment and anger, but never hatred. Tell me what you intended, what you attempted to do. You thought about killing her, didn't you? Because she was mine."

Tears were in her eyes, an admission she had never made to anyone, had never dared consider, that instant when she had held the small beaker holding her daughter's embryo and considered throwing it into the fire. She remembered what her emotions had been, her fears, if their child would be as violent and dangerous as its father, if it would come to hate the creatures that she so loved, or even worse, if it would be unlike Helen – it would grow up, and live, and die, while she was forced to watch, unchanging as centuries passed without her. She was not even aware that John's arms were around her, that he understood, that some of the madness had passed from him in the love that they had once shared. The Shadows were creeping nearer as she crumbled, salivating at the thought that she would be overwhelmed with the pain, convinced that John's presence was not enough to save her.

But the same strength that had prevented her from being rid of the child, the same determination that had allowed her to survive those dark days when John had broken her heart, now intervened. The oil lamp burned brightly, casting flickering, dancing forms across the walls and ceiling, forms that she now knew were alive. In a movement so swift they could not anticipate her intentions she caught up the lamp and hurled it onto the hearth. Oil spattered across the floor and walls, ignited by flames that were soon licking around them, the heat unbearable. The shadows were screaming, the world flickering as they attempted to change the surroundings, but she refused to move, to abandon the parlor and thus transport them with her into another scene from her memories. John would not let her move. His hands remained on her shoulders, holding her firm as the inferno blazed around them. It imploded in a violent streak of white light, her golden hair flying around her face and fading into the dark brunette that had come with age. His arms were around her then and he was pressing his lips to hers in a final farewell, a deep, passionate embrace that left her yearning for more as he drew away from her.

They stood in her room in the darkness, moments after she had entered it and Helen knew they were no more than shadows, fragments of reality intervening like ghosts on a quiet scene. She saw herself asleep on the bed, and knew from the cracks in her perceptions that the vision was fading. John kept hold of her hand, lifting it to kiss as he faded into nothing. "Never hatred, Helen," he whispered before he was gone, and the room resonated with it, before she awoke against the pillows. It was nearly dawn and the fire had burned out, leaving only smoldering ashes in the hearth. It seemed impossible that only a few hours had passed, when she had relived several years of her life, but it was the same morning it had been when she had fallen into unconsciousness, and her footsteps were confident as she passed down the long corridor, relieved to hear the sounds of Will and Ashley arguing in the den.

"I am telling you, there are no such things as shape-shifters. I have seen just about everything this planet has to offer, and not once have I ever encountered a shape-shifter." Ashley was seated before the fire, a small table set up with a checker board between them.

Will reached forward to move his piece, the reflective lens of his glasses glowing in the firelight. "You ask me to believe impossible things every day. I say it's within the realm of reason to suspect that shape-shifters exist. If mermaids, and yetis, and folding men exist, then why not shape-shifters?" He jumped three of her pieces and said "HA!" as he added them to the pile on his side of the board. Unobserved in the doorway, Helen smiled as they continued to argue, turning to find Bigfoot behind her.

"It has stopped raining," he said, and she turned her eyes to the crimson streaks of dawn appearing through the far windows. So it had, she observed. Today, there would be no lingering shadows.

END


End file.
